


older versions of my works: a collection

by duckkue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckkue/pseuds/duckkue
Summary: This book won't make sense if you haven't read my other book(s) lmao
Kudos: 2





	older versions of my works: a collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This book won't make sense if you haven't read my other book(s) lmao

It'll be over soon enough, wouldn't it be?

He hoped so. 

It was an itch crawling underneath his cold flesh, the bursting flames lining the ice in his veins. His body couldn't decide which pain was worse, so it just hit him double time. He would have laughed if he cared enough anymore. It was more cold than hot, he finally decided with a bitter smile.

"I'm so cold." That felt like forever ago. Walking the streets and parks in London late at night to film a story he had started writing out. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘵, he had said, 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵. 𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯𝘴. 𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦.

It was fun while it lasted, he supposed. Things never seemed to last for him, though.

𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

He wasn't trying to. 

𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

Maybe he didn't want to anymore.

𝘎𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

Maybe he didn't 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 to anymore.

Yeah, he really didn't. What was he getting up for, anyways? Right. 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 

An abandoned guitar stared him down from the corner. It's gaze seemed sad, miserable. Almost as if saying 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘞𝘪𝘭, 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘦.. 𝘥𝘪𝘦? 𝘋𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦? 

Sorry that I'm not strong enough, he thought.  
The top surface was neatly covered in a thin layer of dust. The sight of perfection almost made Wilbur get up just to run a finger along the grime. 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵.

The ghosting weight of the instrument heaved itself up into his arms, the feeling too foreign and familiar all at once. Strums and plucks at rich, melodic strings teased his fingertips. Soft slaps at the wooden base stung his palms. Gentle but firm grips at the neck of the guitar clenched his fists. It was.. 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨. It felt 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 now. He knew it used to be all he knew, all he had. The comfort he held in his two hands was gone with the wind, slipping through his calloused fingers and whispering into the void, ready to finally retire to the darkness. 

He had a feeling it was never coming back.

He sat up on his bed, blankets scattered around in what he would've called an "organized mess". Not that he'd said that in a long time, especially since he hadn't really talked to anyone in- weeks? 

He hadn't moved in a while; anything more than occasional bathroom trips and rare food stops was far too much for Wilbur to handle. A phone sat on a nightstand. It hadn't been opened in what felt like an eternity. His notifications went haywire the first few days that he finally quit trying to find the energy to text back.

His phone had long since stopped buzzing. 

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 

Maybe he was doing everyone a favor.

Maybe he should just get up already.

𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦.

Nothing felt solid now, he noted distantly. It was like he was floating- 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥, 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘴, he could almost hear someone say. Which one of his friends would've? He could name a few.

Echoes of laughter bounced off the rubbery walls of Wilbur's brain. 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴?

Maybe before. But now? He'd never be able to face them ever again. Not like they'd want him around anyways, but still. (Not like Will had the urge to talk to them ever again, oh no.) 

Maybe he needed some fresh air. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦.

The faint melody of high pitched laughter came tumbling from one end of his jumbled thoughts to another, a simple 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 retorting back. The voice sounded suspiciously like Tommy, so Wilbur just elected to ignore it. 𝘖𝘶𝘤𝘩.

Yeah, he was going to get some air. (Finally.)  
Standing up for the first time in what felt like an actual eternity was.. an experience Wilbur'd rather not dwell on for now. 

(He's rather not dwell on anything. At all. Oh well.)

His brain immediately screamed at him, his vision swarmed with black dots and his head pounding. The wave of it was so strong he stumbled backwards and down on the bed. Wilbur clutched his head so hard he felt blood trickle down his face. It only made the headache worse. 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤. 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘮-

The clock ticked by for what could have been minutes or hours. Maybe days if Wilbur wanted to humor it enough. (But hadn't he already been doing that?) 

He lay curled up in a ball, heart slamming against his ribcage and head pounding in protest. He could remember a time where this had happened before. No, that wasn't it. He had been in this very position before, hadn't he? That sounded right.

It was the first time Techno came to the UK to visit.

They had been walking around all over Brighton the day before, seeing all the sights. Well, Wilbur seeing his town for the millionth time and Techno commentating over it in his usual monotone. But today? The adults of SBI just sat in Wilbur's flat, talking and laughing and just basking in how they were all physically there. (The Wilbur of the present wasn't ever sure of that anymore.)

They surprised Tommy by convincing his dad to let him come to Brighton for another day, just so he could see Techno and meet him in real life. "So I can bully him up close," Techno had said, "So that nerd can get what's comin' for him." 

Wilbur noticed how Techno wasn't the first to pull away from the welcoming hug he greeted Tommy with, though. (ClingyBlade, Wilbur had teased.)

That was yesterday, though, so Tommy had gone back to London, and Phil had already come to join the two at Wilbur's. 

Techno sensed discomfort radiating from Wilbur, so he subtly investigated. After a few moments of Wilbur deeply breathing with his eyes closed, fingers digging into the pillow next to him, Techno got up. Walking into the kitchen where Phil was making popcorn, Techno frowned. 

"Somethin's up with Wilbur." Phil looked up from his phone in concern. "What do you mean?" Tech ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "He seemed.. uncomfortable? I'm not really sure. I don't know if you've noticed anything?" Phil was quiet for a beat, but he nodded. The blonde then walked out of the kitchen, Techno wordlessly following.

Phil took a seat next to Wilbur, who didn't seem to be aware of his presence. The lanky brunet was rubbing at his temples, his eyes screwed shut, and lips tilted downwards. Techno and Phil glanced at each other, worries barely concealed. Techno took a seat on the other side of their friend. 

Wilbur started trembling, very lightly, but obviously. Phil wrapped an easy arm around him, pulling him to the blonde's side. Wilbur tensed up for a moment before relaxing. He leaned into the half embrace. "Hey, mate." Phil whispered soothingly. Will let out a quiet but high pitched whine and shoved his head into the crook of Philza's neck. The oldest wrapped his arm fully around the other, using his available hand to gently massage Will's scalp. 𝘚𝘢𝘧𝘦, his mind whispered, 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦. Wilbur completely melted.

They leaned back into the cushions, Wilbur curled into Phil's side with Techno rubbing calming, small circles into Will's back gently. It may have only been about 9pm, but they all dozed off in the presence of each other. It was cleansing, it was refreshing. Wilbur woke up without a migraine for the first time in weeks, and they spent the next morning with ice cream and movie marathons. They were okay. 𝘚𝘢𝘧𝘦.

If Wilbur kept his eyes closed, he could stay in that moment for a long time. He knew it was futile. It was all pointless. He tried to let the calming voice of Phil and reassuring motions from Techno wash over him again, but they were gone. 

Slowly, he unfurled from his ball, forcing his hands to let go of his head. Will knew that blood had ran down the sides of his face in small streaks and streams. He didn't pay any mind to them, simply wiping them away.

More carefully this time, he slipped off the bed.  
Finally moving around without feeling like he was actually dying cleared the tiniest bit of the fog in his head, although he knew fixing the rest of it was far beyond his capabilites. The little things, he thought. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵. 

He'd be gone soon, anyways.

He shut his eyes, forcing the thought out of his mind the best he could. It didn't work, unsurprisingly.  
What was he doing? Right, going outside. Did he- did he really want to, honestly? Should he even show his pathetic, hated face anywhere? What would he even do outside, anyways?

A thought clicked in his head. Something, muffled and quiet and 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬, whispered it's mantra over and over. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵- 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘰-

A louder part of him seemed keen on the idea. 𝘋𝘰 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰.

Ringing echoed inside of his ears, and a wave of dizziness hit him hard. It made him stumble to the side, balance thrown off. He felt like his thoughts weren't his own, he couldn't 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬. Didn't normal people think this stuff through?

𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

He noticed, Captain Obvious.

𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘥, another siren lulled, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱.

No. Nonono. If he slept, he wouldn't wake up. Sure- he wanted that, but. Too easy. He was always one for the dramatics, wasn't he? He had a different idea, anyways. He liked his own plans better. It'd been a while since he'd done anything, hadn't it?

He's doing this the right way. Razors flashed in his mind. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.

After a small scan of the floor, he spotted his shoes.

They sat carelessly right beside the nightstand, which still had his dead phone waiting patiently on the top of it. He hesitated slightly.

𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

He knew they had; he didn't blame them, either. He'd given up on himself a long time ago. 

Something about the true realization stirred the beginnings of a hurricane deep inside his gut, and clenched his chest tightly. It also brought a strange wash of calm over him. Huh.

𝘈𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘪𝘴.

Pulling in his shoes, he tugged a black beanie over his head. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, he reasoned, 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

That's for the best, he thought.

He glanced back at his guitar. Should he? Could he even play anymore? (Did he want to?)

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵.

He left with the instrument, anyways.   
\---


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